Kids in America
by supposed rockstar
Summary: You turn your back only to return over and over again... [Borderline M for implied subject matter]


This is the beginning of something that may or may not end in completion. It's pretty much all Tommy. I _like_ it that way.

Title duly credited to Kim Wilde. She – and that song – rocks me hard. I'd actually suggest listening to it because it will play a role – even if it seems a little too punk-synthpop for the tone. Trust me...

I **do **own Instant Star sooo... there you have it. I also co-own a few of the cast members so hands the fuck off. I don't own this story, however. I give rights to Kris because he's 6'4.

Enjoy...

Huge pt: I'm not so sure that all of the accent marks will show or if they'll turn to hell once I post. Forgive me if they don't/do.

Chapter 1 / This is Not a Love Uninvited

The frigid water dripped from the shadowed angles of his jaw line, yesterday's cleanly shaven face buried within five o'clock's underbrush. He hadn't taken the time to clean himself up from the previous night, hadn't wanted to wash the toxic waste from his gangly limbs. Olivia was with the family for the week; he was strung out and his skin felt crinkled and dry.

He yanked at the hem of his shapeless black a-shirt, wishing it wouldn't bunch up and deceive his trite plot to keep from showing how much weight he'd lost, hoping it would just skim over his see-through clavicles instead of pronouncing them. He fiddled with his silvery belt buckle, going up yet another notch to keep his jeans from showing more hip bone than any Italian supermodel would dare. The face in the small medicine cabinet mirror was haunted – haunting. His cheeks were of a histrionic pallor, no longer the days of sun burnt swaths of ruby red receding into his temples as raw sienna. His eyes, said to launch a thousand ships and contain them all at once in the Caribbean blue, had fallen trap dark circles and mercuric azure.

His gaze went to the once pristinely clean counter top now showing specks and sparkles in matte white. He could only laugh at himself sardonically when he made note to be more high-class in his indulgences. Twenty-dollar bills were for the poor.

He'd only been back in Toronto for a total, unnoted thirteen days. _And 7 hours, 32 minutes... _He wanted to keep his return privatized so as not to warrant the incessant questions and concerns he knew his "friends" famous for. He didn't need the whining, the anger, or any other emotion he felt drained of. It would grate too far into his nerve endings and he'd snap... or find some other way to close down that portion of his brain that interpreted outside anxiety as another reason to be paranoid. They didn't know him. They didn't need to be bothered. He'd return to the flock in due time and suffer through the wrath of each and every one of them, single-handedly or with the aid of an accomplice.

Thinking of the little girl now somewhere in Montreal, finally getting acquainted with the Great Unknown, he felt himself sink into whimsical nostalgia. Her room wouldn't be on the west side of the house, near the rusted playground, nor would she have to grow accustomed to diffused sunrises sifting through polyester draperies. There would be plush carpets and even softer sofas awaiting her to play and nap on not rotting floorboards and plastic covered divans. It would be good for her even if it wasn't good for him.

Mama was a good woman and Papa called her _girl_. Mama worked hard with her fresh-cut daisies and tulips when Papa went away. Sister was a lonely child, brought up by Brother eight years her senior. Mémère talked to herself in heavy French while showering _les enfants _in equally heavy arms. _Je t'aime, mes précieux! _The songs from the record player could still be heard in the ancient haze, some happy woman singing about the wonders of love and how she marveled over the red roses her lover had sent. Mama hated that song but let it play nonetheless, the notes bouncing off those god damned sieves for curtains. The children played board games and the background chatter continued on.

The memories didn't depress him as they had in his numerous tour bus bunks or in the drugged nightclubs before one, two, six people would join the Debauched Ball. They were his down security blanket for the induced agitation and hypomanic times of throwing hundreds down the drain. Tom rubbed his nose frantically, killing the stinging and jonesing for more. The vivid imagery was tucked away with the mindless dialing to a local vendor. The pictures were seeping still in their slumber with the mocking bathroom shades and the nighttime sky he couldn't see. A place and a time were confirmed as he, once again, pulled down his shirt and jerked up his pants. God, he needed to shave.


End file.
